Volcano
by Mrs. McDreamy MD
Summary: Takes place after the ferry boat accident. Derek is trying to cope with the almost loss of Meredith. MerDer. Dercentric.
1. Chapter 1

_Song is Volcano by Damien Rice_

Don't hold yourself like that  
cause You'll hurt your knees  
well I kissed your mouth, and back  
But that's all I need  
Don't build your world around  
Volcanoes melt you down

And What I am to you is not real  
What I am to you, you do not need  
What I am to you is not what you mean to me  
You give me miles and miles of mountains  
And I'll ask for the sea

Don't throw yourself like that  
In front of me  
I kissed your mouth, your back  
Is that all you need?  
Don't drag my love around  
Volcanoes melt me down

What I am to you is not real  
What I am to you, you do not need  
What I am to you is not what you mean to me  
You give me miles and miles of mountains  
And I'll ask  
What I give to you is just what I'm going through  
This is nothing new, no, no just another phase of finding  
what I really need is what makes me bleed  
But like a new disease, Lord, she's still too young to treat  
Volcanoes melt you down  
She's still too young +what iam to you+you do not need+is not real  
I kissed your mouth  
You do not need me

Derek slowly walks towards her room. Mark had found him. Mark had found him and told him that she had woken up. It had only been briefly. Dying is exhausting. At least he assumes that it is. He doesn't know why he is so scared. He doesn't know why he is so nervous to see her. His feet feel heavy as does his heart. His heart. His heart feels broken. But it shouldn't be. He should be happy. He should be happy that she is alive. He should be happy that he can breathe her in one more time. He should be happy that he can hold her in his arms once more. He should be. So, why is he so reluctant to allow that happiness to grip him?

He sighs as he reaches the door. She is asleep. She looks so peaceful. They have a thick blanket covering her. He figures that she is still recovering from the hypothermia. Hypothermia. That's an understatement. She was blue. She was a color of blue that he had never seen the human skin turn before. She was blue and so cold. Cold. Cold and dead. In his arms. She was blue, cold, and dead in his arms.

He can still feel her cold clammy lips against his as he tried desperately to save her, to save himself. Those lips didn't belong to Meredith. They belonged to not-Meredith. They weren't the soft, inviting lips that had kissed him that morning as he teased her about being her knight in shining whatever, as she called him. This morning. He should have known. He should have known that something was wrong. He knows her. He knew that something was wrong.

He leans against the metal doorway leading into her room and watches her sleep. He can feel the coldness of the metal through his clothing and it sends chills to the marrow of his bones as it reminds him of her skin. He finds himself watching the rise and fall of her chest, almost as if he needs the reassurance that she is breathing. That she is alive. That she is still his Meredith.

He watches as she scrunches up her nose a little, a tell that she is about to wake up. He only knows this from the mornings when he would watch her sleep after her snoring had woken him up. He loves to watch her sleep. She is the most peaceful when she sleeps.

His gaze moves from her cute button nose to her mouth. Her mouth where she is currently breathing on her own. He remembers just hours ago the tubes that were breathing for her. She was almost like a robot. Not almost. Was. She was a robot. She wasn't Meredith. She was a shell. A shell that she had been for so long. How did he not notice? How could he not tell that she was fading? He had a feeling this morning. He had a feeling when he found her in the bathtub. He should have known.

She can swim. She can swim and she didn't. She can swim and she gave up. She didn't fight. She didn't fight for her life. She didn't fight for him. He would have fought for her. He would have fought to live for her. She is enough for him. He needs her. He needs to be with her. He needs to be with her for as long as he can. He would have fought for her. Why didn't she fight for him? Why isn't he enough? Will he ever be enough? Will his love ever be enough?

He closes his eyes for a moment and her floating body floats before his vision. He remembers the little girl pointing out towards the water. His heart stopped. He froze. He froze for a moment before shrugging off his heavy coat and jumping in. The water was so cold. The water was so cold that it took away his breath. The water was so cold and dark, but he couldn't stop. He had to find her. It only took him a few minutes. She wasn't far from shore. She wasn't far at all. She could have made it. She could have made it to the dock. She could have. But she didn't. She didn't even try. She gave up. She gave up on life. She gave up on him. But he couldn't give up on her. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

He notices her eyelids begin to flutter open as she is aroused from her sleep. He watches her closely. Watching for any hint of something, anything. She opens her eyes and turns her head. She acts shocked to see him. Why is she shocked? Did she not know that he would be there? Of course he is there. He wouldn't be anywhere else. He thinks that he sees a small smile playing at her lips, but he can't be sure.

He watches. He waits. He waits for what seems like forever. He has so many things that he wants to say. He feels as if his heart could burst out of his chest with emotion, but where does he begin? How does he tell her that the last two hours were complete hell for him as he waited for something, anything, to tell him that she was going to make it. Were the last two hours not hell for her as well?

He knows that he should say something. He knows that he should tell her he loves her. He should. But he can't. He can't. What if he loses her again? He did lose her. She was clinically dead. She was gone. She was gone and she took his heart with her. Why can't he say those three words that he feels so strongly? Maybe it won't be enough. It wasn't enough last time. What if it isn't ever enough? He can't. He can't.

Derek: Hey.

When Meredith responds, her voice is raspy from the breathing tubes. Something that causes another small tear in Derek's already bleeding heart.

Meredith (almost in a sigh): Hey.

Derek fights the tears as he hears a voice he never thought he would hear again. A voice that although raspy and weathered, sounds like music to his hears.

A small sigh escapes from Derek's diaphragm as he slowly pushes himself off of the cold doorframe. A sigh that is full of so many emotions, so many unsaid I love yous, so many fears. He takes a few steps towards her bed. He has so many things to say to her. He needs to say so many things to her. But he can't. He wants to wrap her fragile body in his arms and protect her. He wants to hold her for forever and never let go. He wants to provide her warmth, comfort, and love. But he can't. Not right now. He can't.

So, he stares down at her and smiles. He smiles. He doesn't mean the smile. Not really. He is happy that she is alive. He is happy that she is breathing. But he isn't happy. Not really. He feels…lonely. He opens his mouth to tell her he loves her. He opens his mouth to tell her that he needs her. He opens his mouth to tell her that he is glad that she didn't die today. But nothing comes out.

He leans down and brushes his hand across her warm forehead, warm not cold, before placing a soft kiss on her skin. She is no longer blue. She is no longer cold. She is no longer dead. She is Meredith. She is his Meredith again. But why does he feel so alienated? He shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets, a motion that exemplifies the awkwardness of the situation. After all, it isn't everyday that the love of your life almost dies. That is when it really hits him. She is the love of his life. Meredith. She is his soul mate. He hadn't really realized that before. He didn't realize it until he felt dead inside while she was dying. She is the love of his life, but what is he to her?

He opens his mouth to speak again, this time formulating words, but not the ones that he was intending.

Derek: Meredith..

God it feels so good to say her name. To feel it roll off of his tongue like soft velvet. A name that she didn't think he would ever be able to say again. It is a relief. It is a huge relief. She looks at him and he can feel her eyes delving into his soul.

Meredith: My mother is dead isn't she?

Derek stands there for a short moment. How did she know? Did someone else already tell her? Surely not. If someone had told her she wouldn't be asking him.

Derek: Yes…

Meredith shakes her head, cutting him off. He just stares at her.

Meredith: It's ok...I think...I think it's ok.

Derek stares at her. He stares at the tiny, pale, fragile woman, the love of his life, engulfed by the thermal blanket and hooked up to numerous monitors and he can't help but think that it isn't okay. He can't help but think that everything if far from being okay. She isn't okay. He isn't okay. Things aren't okay.

**So yeah...here is another one...I write when I get stressed...lol...hope you enjoy...let me know what you think. **

**-Marci**


	2. Chapter 2

Derek stares at her from his chair next to her bed. She looks so fragile. She is smiling, but it is such a broken smile. He caresses his arm as he plants a fake smile on his face and talks about the mundane things of everyday life. He just wants to touch her. He wants to feel her warmth. He wants to feel her life. He needs to feel that she is alive.

Derek: So, Cristina and Preston are engaged?

Meredith smiles as she nods in agreement.

Meredith: That was the first thing that she said when I woke up.

Meredith's voice is still raspy as they both laugh over Cristina's inability to do the emotional thing. But then, isn't that what they are doing? Aren't they avoiding the fact that she almost died? Aren't they avoiding the fact that she gave up? Isn't he avoiding the fact that he isn't enough?

He just needs to feel her soft, warm skin. He just needs to hear her angelic giggle. He just needs to pretend for right now that it didn't happen. That she didn't almost die. That she didn't almost leave him all alone. That she didn't almost give up on him.

He runs his fingers along each and every one of hers, memorizing the way that each precious inch feels under his touch. He stares at her, trying to transmit his love by just a look. He can't say it. He can't form the words to say it. He just can't. He is too scared. He is too scared of her leaving him again. And he can't say it right now.

Derek: Do you think she will do the white dress?

Meredith giggles, but her giggles turn into a fit of coughs as throat still suffers from the painful assault of the breathing tube. Derek leans in closer and runs his hand up and down her back. His face is worried as he watches her struggle to breathe. Once again, for the third time in less than twenty-four hours, she is struggling to breathe. He wants to breathe for her. He really wants to breathe for her. But he can't. He can't breathe for her if she won't let him.

Her coughing subsides and Derek moves his hand to her face.

Derek: Are you okay?

Meredith nods as she struggles to swallow.

Meredith: I'm fine.

Derek sighs inwardly at her choice of words. Fine. She is always fine. Fine. The word has morphed into its very own antonym. She was her definition of fine, which was the very opposite of everyone else's definition. Why can't she just tell him she's not fine? Why doesn't she trust him? He knows that he has screwed up. He gets that. But will she ever trust him again? Will she ever let him in? Will he ever be enough for her?

Derek: Would you like some ice chips? Maybe some water?

She smiles thankfully at Derek as she reaches up and runs her fingers over his jaw line. He shivers under her touch. He didn't think that she would ever touch him again. He didn't think that he would ever shiver the way that only she makes him shiver. He didn't think he would ever be happy again. He didn't think he would ever be whole again. He didn't think he would ever be alive again.

Meredith: Ice chips would be great.

Derek stands up, reluctant to let her go. If he lets her go, he doesn't know what will happen. He is just going to get her ice chips. He shouldn't be freaking out like this. But he almost lost her. He DID lose her. He lost her for two hours. For two hours she was dead. For two hours he was dead.

He starts to let go of her hand and leave to get her ice chips, but he stops abruptly and turns back around. She looks at him with questioning eyes. He can read her. She wants to know what is wrong. But he has to pretend that nothing is wrong. He has to pretend that everything is okay because that is what she needs. She needs to believe that everything is okay right now because he doesn't want to imagine what will happen if she doesn't think this.

So, he smiles warmly down at her as he reaches down and brushes her hair out of her face. She is just staring up at him, taking his breath away. She is so beautiful. He leans down and places a soft kiss on her forehead, taking his time to enjoy the feel of her soft skin on his forehead. It feels so different than when he did it just after she was brought in. Right before he was kicked out of her room. He thought that would be his last time to kiss her. He thought that was it.

He never wanted to think about the way her clammy skin felt against his lips again. This is the way it was supposed to feel, warm and inviting and alive. He doesn't know how long he lingers. He doesn't care. He needs to erase the memory of their almost last kiss. He needs to replace the cold with her warmth. He needs to, but he can't.

Meredith runs her fingers down his back, breaking him from his reverie. The words die on the tip of his tongue. Why can't he say them? He wants to, but his self-preservation won't allow him. He smiles down at her as he runs his finger over her cheek bone.

Derek: I will be right back.

Derek speaks these words, but inside he is screaming for her to not leave him. He is hoping that she won't disappear when he leaves. It only took a moment for her to disappear into the dark abyss of the water earlier, who says that it can't happen again? He can't lose her. Oh God, he can't.

Meredith smiles up at him. A smile he never thought he would see again. What if he never saw that beautiful smile or those beautiful eyes again? He can't even think about it. Not now. Now he needs to get her ice chips. Now he needs to take care of her. Now he needs to pretend. He can pretend.

Meredith: Okay.

Derek squeezes Meredith's hand before releasing his grip. Her fingers trail over his palm and their fingers linger on the edge of the other's as he slowly walks away, grasping for the feel of her for as long as he can. He feels cold as soon as all contact vanishes. He walks towards the door and looks back at her. She is watching him. She is propped up in bed with her head slightly to the side and she is watching him with a small smile on her face.

Why is she smiling?

Derek smiles a fake smile before turning and quickly walking away to find some ice chips. He has to hurry. He needs to get her ice chips quickly and get back to her. He doesn't even notice Mark and Addison sitting behind the desk watching him as he walks away. He is too afraid that she will disappear. He is too afraid that she will sink. He is too afraid that she will drown. He is too afraid that she will stop fighting. He is too afraid that she will stop breathing. He is too afraid that she will die again. He is too afraid that she will die again and leave him drowning as his oxygen will disappear with her life.

**So...I know that Derek's thoughts seem repetitive...but this is how I imagine Derek...he broods..and things build up..so yeah...Just let me know what you guys think..**

**-Marci**


	3. Chapter 3

Derek drapes his arm around her as she nestles back against him. She is lying underneath the thick thermal blanket and he is lying atop, but more than fabric separates them. He is clinging on to her for dear life, afraid to let her go. Afraid that she will float away. Afraid that she will disappear into the dark abyss. Afraid that she will give up.

He stares at the back of her head, inhaling deeply. But he doesn't smell the intoxicating scent of her hair that often serves as his oxygen. He smells hospital. He smells the bay. He smells dead Meredith. He closes his eyes forcefully as he tries to force the images out of his head, but they won't go away. Meredith. Cold. Dead. Blue. Dead. Not Meredith.

He opens his eyes, her honey locks before him. He notices the way that each strand starts off slightly darker and gradually becomes lighter with length. He notices that there a couple of hairs that do not go in the same direction of the others. If she had died, he would have never had the time to know this. He can't imagine not ever knowing this. He wants to know everything He wants to have a lifetime to learn everything about her. He doesn't even know if a lifetime is enough.

Her deep breathing signifies that she has fallen asleep. She is sleeping in his arms. She is once again sleeping in his arms. He listens to her breathing. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. She is breathing on her own. She is physically breathing on her own, but he is drowning. He is drowning with his almost loss of the love of his life. Of his Meredith. He is drowning in the thoughts of losing her.

Her chest rises and falls beneath the weight of his arm. The rise and fall supporting him as her cold, dead body crushes him under its memory. A weightless memory is crushing him relentlessly and he struggles to breath beneath its enormity.

He should sleep. He should close his eyes and sleep peacefully knowing that the love of his life is safe in his arms. He should. But he can't. He can't close his eyes. He can't sleep. He can't. He is terrified to sleep. He is terrified to close his eyes.

She might stop breathing. She might just decide to give up and stop breathing. He needs to hear her breathing. He needs to feel her alive. He needs to keep her from disappearing again. He needs every moment. He needs every breath. He needs every giggle. He needs every kiss. He needs her. He needs her for forever and anything less than that just isn't long enough.

A nurse walks in to check her vitals and the pump that is pumping medication into her frail body. Derek's eyes trail from the pump to the IV that is inserted into Meredith's arm. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be in the hospital bed with IVs and nurses checking up on her. She should be at home. She should be at home in his arms. She should not have died today. She shouldn't have, but she did. She died today and with her death a little part of Derek died as well.

The nurse looks down at him and their eyes meet. Nurse Tyler. He smiles weakly at Derek. Nurse Tyler did always like Meredith. Derek tries to return the smile, but it dies on his lips. He can't smile. Not right now. Not when his thoughts are swimming with the idea of Meredith not swimming. Not when he sees her cold, floating body in the water as he searches for her. Not when he feels her cold, clammy, dead skin against his own. Not when he is pushing his own life into her trying to save her.

That is the image that he sees every time he closes his eyes. Only, when he closes his eyes her body floats further and further away from her. He reaches for her. He reaches for her and she continues to float away, just out of his grasp and he can't save her. He can't save her. He can't save the love of his life from drowning.

Silent tears run down Derek's cheek as the images haunt continue to haunt him when his eyes are open. He can't let her go again. He can't let her float away. He can't let her drown. He needs to save her. He needs her. He loves her. Oh God, he loves her.

He instinctively pulls her body further into his as he thinks about her floating away, his grip on her tightening as he feels her slipping away. He lost her once. He can't lose her again. Not now. Not ever. He will do whatever it takes. He will do whatever it takes to save her.

The warmth from her body comforts him some, but not enough for sleep to overtake him. Even with all of the monitors, he is afraid. She died today. She died today and he has never felt more alone than when she was dead those few hours. It didn't matter that everyone was surrounding him, because none of them mattered. The only person that mattered was dead and they were desperately trying to revive her. Trying to revive him.

He remembers the moment when Mark ran up to him as he was sitting on the floor next to her dead mother's room.

_Derek's head is in his hands and the tears are flowing freely. He couldn't even save her mother. He couldn't save Meredith and he couldn't save her mother. He is worthless. He is supposed to be a doctor and he can't help the person whom he cares about most in this world._

_He hears footsteps approaching, but he doesn't even bother to look up. He is afraid. He is afraid that someone is coming to tell him that she didn't make it. That they did everything they could, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. He wasn't enough to fight for._

_A hand lightly touches his arm. He knows that hand. It is the same hand that tried to comfort him earlier when his girlfriend was dead and they were trying. Oh God. She is dead. He has come to tell him that she is dead. He breaks down. He breaks down and sobs. He can't lose her. He can't breathe without her. He can't._

_Mark: Derek?_

_He can't hear it. He can't. It will kill him. It will completely break him to hear it._

_Derek (gasping between sobs): Don't…please…I can't…don't tell me…please.._

_Derek's voice is pleading in a way that shocks Mark. Derek is desperate. He needs to hold onto to the last minute of hope. He needs that last minute in which she is alive to him. Just one more minute. One more second to hold onto her fleeting soul. He needs her._

_Mark: Derek?_

_He can't do this. He can't. Please. No. She can't leave him. She can't. She made him alive. She is his life. He can't._

_Mark: Damn it, Derek! She's awake! She's awake and asking for you!_

_Derek snaps his head up and looks at his friend with red eyes. His mouth falls agape. He didn't just say what he thinks he said…did he?_

_Derek(strangled voice): Wha?_

_Mark sighs as he runs his hand through his hair._

_Mark: She is awake and she is asking for you. She's okay, man._

Derek rubs his thumb in circles on her hip as she sleeps soundly. She is with him right now. Right now she is in his arms. Right now she is okay. But right now isn't enough. He wants forever. He needs forever and he will do whatever it takes to give them forever.

**So yeah...like I said...this is going to be somewhat repetitive...but when you brood...that is the way it is...I want to see what Derek went through these past months...and I think especially after last night's episode we see how he can't let her go...he can't lose her...so yeah...let me know what you think.**

**-Marci**


	4. Chapter 4

He grips the styrofoam cup in his hand, the cold coffee leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth as it is forced down his esophagus. Three days. It has been three days since the accident. Three days since she drowned. Three days since she gave up. Three days since she died. Three days since he last slept.

It has only been three days. Three short days that have seemed like an eternity. Three short days in which he has relished every touch, every look, every breath, every moment with her, terrified that it may be his last.

As he walks down the hallways of Seattle Grace towards Meredith's room, several people glance at him curiously. His hair is unkempt, he is unshaven, and his eyes are blood shot. Basically, he looks like hell. He looks like hell and Derek Shepherd never looks like hell, but he could care less. He could care less because three days ago his world was turned upside down and he is still trying to recover from the dizziness.

He runs his hand roughly over his face as he turns down the hallway that leads to her room. Three days. That's too soon. She shouldn't be going home yet. She died just three days ago, that should warrant at least a week in the hospital…right? She had tubes down her throat for almost three hours. Three days for three hours just doesn't seem right. Hell, she still has the bruises on her chest from the compressions that he did in the ambulance as he was trying to bring her back to life. As he was trying to bring her back to him.

She tried to hide the bruises from him. She didn't want him to see just how broken she was. Just how broken she is. But he knows. He knows that she is broken into more pieces than her physical appearance implies. Three days. Three days in the hospital and not one visit, not one note, not one call from her father. Her mother died and she almost died, was dead, and nothing from that asshole. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get how someone could abandon someone as great as Meredith. He doesn't get how someone could break her so much that he is shuffling around searching for particles of dust as he tries so desperately to put her back together.

_Humpy dumpty sat on the wall_

_Humpty dumpty had a great fall_

Isn't that the children's nursery rhyme they teach you at such a young age? It's like your parents are preparing you to be broken. They are preparing you for the fact that your whole world could shatter with one simple mishap, one wrong step.

For Meredith, for his Meredith, it is like someone pushed her off of the wall and then continued to break her shell into tiny pieces. She hasn't had it easy. He knows that. This past year, he is amazed that she has even survived. Although, technically, she didn't. Technically, she died. Technically, she gave up. But technicallys are simply technicalities.

Meredith. Meredith is reality. Meredith is his entire reality. He wants to rewrite that nursery rhyme so often told. He wants to be the King's man that is able to put Meredith back together again. He needs to be that man. He needs to be her knight in shining "whatever" as she so put it that morning three days ago.

"Hey, man," a familiar male voice calls somewhere to his left. He turns to face a person he once considered his best friend.

"You look like shit."

Derek sighs as he runs his hand over his face once again, the whiskers causing an unfamiliarity with his own face.

"Thanks."

Mark pats Derek on the back, earning him a glare in return.

"I was just saying…" Mark trails off the sentence, unsure of exactly how to finish it.

"Well, go tell it to someone who actually cares," Derek says as he walks away towards Meredith's room, leaving Mark watching him with a worried expression.

He approaches Meredith's room with a stomach full of knots. Knots tied unknowingly by her delicate fingers. Cold, blue, lifeless delicate fingers that hung limply at her side as he ran towards the ambulance with her in his arms.

He leans against the wall outside of her room, needing a moment to collect himself before he walks in and sees her. She's not ready to go home. He's not ready for her to go home. Here, there are monitors. Here, there are doctors. At home. At home it's just him. It's just him and it's already been made clear that he just isn't enough.

_All the King's horses  
And all the King's men  
Couldn't put Humpty together again!_

**_So...I always wondered about Mer's hospital stay...they skipped over it completely...and Derek is having a hard time...a very hard time and it's not going to get any better. Let me know what you think. I'm a comment whore._**

**_-Marci_**


	5. Chapter 5

**The song used in this update is Jack Johnson-Flake**

Derek looks over at her sitting in the passenger seat as he turns onto her street. She is looking out of the window with a slight smile curving the ends of her lips. He doesn't know why she is smiling. He hopes that it is because she is happy to be alive. He hopes that it is because of the warmth of the sun hitting her on her face, illuminating its surface and transforming her into an angelic figure. For what seemed like forever, she might have been an angelic figure. He can't think about that. He can't. He needs to concentrate on why she is smiling. He doesn't know why she is smiling and instead of comforting him, it scares him.

It scares him because she still isn't communicating. It scares him because she has yet to talk about her almost death. How is she supposed to solve the problems that led to her giving up if she doesn't talk about them? If she doesn't confront them? He hates to think about what will happen next time. He can't even fathom a next time. What if he isn't there? What will happen then? It scares the shit out of him to think about it.

He licks his lips and runs his sweaty palms over the steering wheel as he turns into her driveway. It seems like forever since he has stepped foot in her house. It seems like forever because it has been the longest three days of his life. He can predict her response to his unasked question, but he needs to ask anyways. It's almost like a compulsion. Ask and you shall receive, or whatever.

"How are you?" He asks as he places the vehicle in park, turning his body slightly towards her. He hopes that if she sees that he is opening up to her with his body language, she will finally communicate with him. He hopes that she will reciprocate the openness.

"I'm fine," she responds with a warm smile. He knew that was what she would say. She's always fine. Even when she's at the bottom of the freaking bay she's fine. In the dictionary next to fine should be the name Meredith Grey.

_I know she said it's alright  
But you can make it up next time  
I know she knows it's not right  
There ain't no use in lying  
Maybe she thinks I know something  
Maybe maybe she thinks its fine  
Maybe she knows something I don't  
I'm so, I'm so tired, I'm so tired of trying_

He sighs as he turns to open his door. He knows that he shouldn't feel the frustration that is causing the blood in his capillaries to boil. He knows that he should be happy that she is here. With him. Now. She is with him now and he should cherish that. He should. But he can't. All that he can think about is the fickleness of her presence with him. He feels as if he is turning into a paranoid schizophrenic. Except its not a feasible entity that is his enemy. It is death. It is death and it's not his own that he fears, but hers. Life without her would be a life of torture. Every breath. Every morning waking up to her cold pillow. Every night in silence in the absence of her snores. Every heartbeat. It is a waste without her. She is the only reason that it matters. She is the only reason that anything matters anymore.

_It seems to me that maybe  
It pretty much always means no  
So don't tell me you might just let it go  
And often times we're lazy  
It seems to stand in my way  
Cause no one no not no one  
Likes to be let down_

He leans his forehead against the soft leather of the steering wheel. He needs to remember to breathe. He needs to breathe, but it's so hard. It's just so damn hard to breathe when such a large weight compressing his chest. It's just so hard to breathe for himself right now, let alone breathe for her as well. But he has to. He has to breathe for her. He has been breathing for her since he pulled her out of the water and began giving her CPR. He has not stopped. He has not stopped breathing for her. He can't. He can't stop breathing for her. When she wasn't breathing, he wasn't breathing. He couldn't. She is his oxygen. She provides the oxygen, he provides the ventilation.

He sees her frail arm reaching out to him with his peripheral vision before he feels its slight touch on his shoulder. So light. So ethereal. Almost not there. Almost not there at all.

"Derek?" She asks hesitantly as she leans slightly towards him. Her lavender scent filling his nostrils.

She has finally gotten her conditioner yesterday and he couldn't stop inhaling her. Inhaling her like there was no tomorrow, because for all he knows there might not be a tomorrow. He might not ever wake up and be met with the sun dancing across her milky skin again. He might not ever be able to enjoy the small things, like drinking a cup of coffee together while reading different sections of the newspaper together in the mornings. It is the small things. It is the small things that make this thing between them so damn big.

_I know she loves the sunrise  
No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes  
And I know that when she said she's gonna try  
Well it might not work because of other ties and  
I know she usually has some other ties  
And I wouldn't want to break 'em, nah, I wouldn't want to break 'em  
Maybe she'll help me to untie this but  
Until then well, I'm gonna have to lie too_

"I'm fine," he sighs into the void that exists between the top of the steering wheel and the horn. He isn't fine. He isn't even close to fine. Just like she isn't fine. But if she is going to lie and pretend to be fine, then so can he. He can play her little game as well. Plus, she doesn't need to worry about him. He needs to worry about her. He needs to take care of her. He needs to make sure that she doesn't stop breathing. He needs to make sure that she doesn't stop living.

He turns his face towards her and forces himself to smile. He is sure that it is probably an ugly smile. It feels ugly. It feels ugly and wrong. Smiling feels like it did when he was with Addison. He feels like he has on a pair of those old wax lips. Lips that scream "Look at me, I'm fake smiling with my fake red lips and fake white teeth because I'm fake fine." They have both become masked actors in the drama that is their life. Where is the line between the play and the reality? Because he sure as hell would like to know.

_It seems to me that maybe  
It pretty much always means no  
So don't tell me you might just let it go  
And often times we're lazy  
It seems to stand in my way  
Cause no one no not no one  
Likes to be let down  
It seems to me that maybe  
It pretty much always means no  
So don't tell me you might just let it go_

"I'm home," she whispers as she looks up at the house looming in front of them. Her eyes are big, almost as if she is scared and this only intensifies his fear, but she quickly hides that fear.

"You're home," he responds as she turns to look at him. She smiles at him. She opens the car door and gets out of the car. She bends down to look at him when he remains seated. He doesn't know if she wants him to come in. He doesn't know what she wants. He doesn't know anything anymore.

"You coming?" she asks him with arched eyebrow.

"Yup," he responds while opening the door.

He follows her into the quiet house. All of her roommates are at work so they have the house to themselves. She drops her bag at the bottom of the stairs before turning to face him. She smiles at him before walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. He is confused. He has no idea why she is hugging him unexpectedly. He runs his hands up and down her back, hoping for her to show some kind of emotion. He can't believe that he is wishing for her to cry, but it seems like it would make it easier. It would make it easier to know that she was just as scared as he was. He needs for her to be scared. He needs for her to scared of death so that she never willingly attempts to die again.

"I'm alive."

Her soft whisper cuts through his heart, dissecting it to tiny pieces as it crumbles into a messy pile in his chest cavity. She's alive. She's alive. Meaning she was dead. He knows that she was dead. He knows that. God does he know that. He lived that. He lived through her death. Why don't her words offer him relief? Maybe it's because they are more like a statement. They seem dull. They don't seem full of, well, anything. It is almost like she is just saying them to say them.

"You're alive," he forces himself to respond past the large lump that has formed in his throat. Probably a piece of his broken heart. His broken heart that only she can put together. He will never admit it. He will never admit that he needs for her to be his cobbler. He needs for her to mend his soul, the support upon which his being rests.

_The harder that you try baby, the further you'll fall  
Even with all the money in the whole wide world  
Please please please don't pass me  
Please please please don't pass me  
Please please please don't pass me by_

She rests her chin on his chest as she stares up at him. She doesn't look sad. She doesn't look relieved. She looks content. How can she be content? She almost died. He's scare shitless and she's content. He forces yet another smile, something that he has a feeling he will be doing a lot from now on. She bites down on her bottom lip.

"What?" he asks, knowing that look as a tell that she is wanting something. He runs his fingers through her smooth, silky hair as she stares up at him.

"I'm starving." As she says these words her stomach growls loudly and a giggle escapes from her sweet mouth.

A giggle. A giggle that should make his heart soar. A giggle that should force a chuckle involuntarily past his lips, but instead causes him immense pain. What if he had never heard that chuckle again? He leans forward and places a soft kiss on her forehead to hide the grimace of pain that flickers across his face. He can fake. He can make her think that he is okay. He can. He will. He has to. He can't let her know. He can't let her know that now he is the one who is sinking to the bottom. He is sinking to the bottom of the same bay in which he found her. He is inhaling the same water that flooded her lungs. He is suffering from the same hypothermia that she suffered from. He is trying to take away her pain and in doing so, he has began to die the death that she suffered only three days ago.

_Everything you know about me now baby you gonna have to change  
You gonna have to call it by a brand new name  
Please please please don't drag me  
Please please please don't drag me  
Please please please don't drag me down_

"Well, I guess we better go get you something to eat," he says as he looks over the top of her head and towards the kitchen. He can't look in her eyes right now. He can't. He can't allow his breaking soul to mend with her healing one. He can't. He can't let her see it. He needs time. He needs time to mask it. Time. Time that fickle bastard who keeps fucking with his life. Time. He wishes it was that time of year when you set your clocks back, only he wants to keep setting the clock back. He wants to gain more hours. He wants to cheat time. He wants to cheat time with her so that they can cheat death together. He needs for them to cheat death together, because anything less than forever just isn't long enough.

He ushers her into the kitchen so that he can prepare something for her to eat, but his thoughts aren't on the food. They are on the dangers that come with eating. What if she chokes? He can't. He can't function. He can't function because he can't think about anything but her dying. He needs to find a way to cheat. He needs to find a way to steal more time. He would go to hell and back for her. He could be her Orpheus, but he would refrain from looking back. He would rescue her from death. His love is enough for that. He could do that. But is his love enough to keep her from dying in the first place? It wasn't the first time.

_Just like a tree down by the water baby I shall not move  
Even after all the silly things you do  
Please please please don't drag me  
Please please please don't drag me  
Please please please don't drag me down_

**_I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I wanted to show the transition and Derek's pain. He is now the one drowning...except for he is drowning on dry land...and he is determined to hide it from Meredith. Let me know what you think._**

**_-marci_**


	6. Chapter 6

He stands over the stove as he pours the pancake batter into the skillet. He can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head, but he doesn't turn around. He can't turn around. Instead, he focuses even more intently on the beige batter as he waits for the bubbles to form so that he can flip them. He has become an avoider. He is avoiding the truth. Not the truth, but confronting Meredith with the truth. He is worried about her. Worried that the wrong word will send her over the already crumbling edge once again. If he does this, how will he save her? How will he save her if he can't even save himself? How will he breathe for her if his lungs are filled with water instead of oxygen?

He slowly maneuvers the spatula under the bubbling pancakes before quickly flipping them over. Their golden brown sides now stare up at him. They scream that they are ready. They scream that they are ready to be eaten. But they are not. They're lying. They're only ready at face value. The bottom half of the pancakes are still raw. Raw and not quite ready to be digested. Just like his pain. Just like her death. The words are brewing in a pressure cooker, but they are still rare. The injuries are suffered but they are still fresh. Taking the raw words and rubbing them into the fresh wounds will only burn like hell. Burn like rubbing salt over a fresh cut. It will burn and only make the pain worse. It will make the pain worse and cause the gaping gash to stay open even longer.

He hates the pancakes. He hates the pancakes for even existing. He made the pancakes. He is the author of this pancakes and he hates them. Just as he hates the wound of Meredith's death that he created. He created it because he didn't stop it from happening, so he is responsible. It is his fault. Her pain is his fault. Her death is his fault. This is all his fault.

The pancakes are done so he slides the spatula under them before carefully stacking them on her plate. He scoops a big clump of butter on top of the pancakes and watches as it slowly melts and runs down the edges, smothering them in its flavor. He sits the plate down in front of Meredith and watches as her tongue darts out from her mouth and runs quickly over her lips in anticipation. She picks the bottle of syrup up off of the table and liberally squeezes, her tongue now between her teeth, something she often does when she is concentrating.

The maple surface oozes over the edge of the pancakes, covering them in their sticky sweetness. She is excited. Her eyes are dancing like a kid in a candy store and her tongue repeatedly darts out of her mouth to lick her lips. It almost makes him chuckle. Almost.

She fists her fork, like a child just learning to eat, before she eagerly cuts through the tall stack. He swears he can see a tiny conglomeration of drool gathered in the corner of her slightly upturned mouth. She cuts a tiny triangle into the pancakes before stabbing the newly separated syrupy mess with the end of her fork. He is amazed when she fits the entire bite of six pancakes into her mouth. He shouldn't be. He shouldn't be amazed. He knows the wonders that mouth can work. He knows how big her mouth really is, but it still amazes him that a person so tiny can eat so much.

She looks up and her twinkling green eyes meet his sad oceans of blue. He feels himself drowning in the depth of her seas. Drowning. He has to close his eyes. He can't. He is too scared. He is too scared to delve to the depths of her soul. Not right now. He is too scared of what he will find. Of what he won't find. Void. Hollowness. Silence. Stillness. Death.

He swallows thickly, forcing his Adam's apple to scrape down the dry wall of his larynx. The air he is breathing seems to be growing heavier as he finds each inhalation more difficult that the last. He runs his hand roughly through his hair. He needs to get away. He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe and he can't do that as long as he is drowning in her. He just needs a minute. A minute. A minute to catch his breath. A minute to regain his composure. A minute to regain his strength. A minute to stop the tears that are presently threatening to pool in his pained eyes.

He runs his hands roughly through the raven locks of his hair as he abruptly stands, the chair grinding in protest as it slides across the hard wood floor, emitting protests of its own. Meredith's head jerks up and the sudden unwarranted movement, confusion furrowing her brow. Derek smiles wryly at her before walking around the table and looking down at her. He places his hand on the back of her neck as he leans down, his moist lips coming into contact with her warm skin.

"I'm going to take a shower," he murmurs against her soft, living flesh.

She smiles up at him. A smile full of trust. A smile full of unspoken love. A smile full of…gratefulness? He has never seen that one before and isn't sure exactly how to digest it.

"Okay," she says as he feels her body leaning into his slight touch.

He pulls away from her, forcing a wry smile before leaving her alone in the kitchen. He can't even begin to think about what she might do. He can't think about the knives in the third drawer next to the stove. He can't. He just can't.

The stairs creak under his weight with each heavy footfall, their boards bending reluctantly under his added burden. His hand runs along the grainy rail of wood listlessly as he finds each progressive step harder and harder to reach. Finally, he reaches the top. Finally, he releases the baited breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Finally, his shoulders slump and the façade of fineness disappears.

The exhaustion sets in as he slowly ambles his way towards the bathroom. Exhaustion from pretending to be okay. Exhaustion from constantly watching her. Exhaustion from not sleeping. He raises a heavy hand and pushes the already cracked bathroom door open. His pale face stares back at him and he almost fails to recognize the resemblance to his former self. He flips the light switch on and immediately groans as the glaring light blinds him. He blinks once. Twice. Three times before entering the bathroom completely and shutting the door behind him. His hand lingers above the lock, debating whether or not to lock the door. It is just them, so he would only be locker her out. His fingers twitch before quickly clicking the lock into place, effectively shutting Meredith out of the bathroom. Out of his impending mental meltdown.

He kicks off his heavy, black, leather shoes before turning on the shower. He slowly peels off of clothing. Clothing that seems to stick to his skin like a second skin. His muscles ache as he lifts his arms over his head to remove his shirt, every fiber in his body feeling the almost loss, the exhaustion, the pain.

He adjusts the temperature of the water slightly before stepping in under its pelting drops. He leans forward, resting his splayed palms on the cool tiles under either side of the head of the shower. The water kneads the tense muscles of his back and skull, providing the first hint of relief he has felt in days.

It begins somewhere in his lower abdomen. Lower than behind his belly button, but higher than his groin. It's tightening. Clenching. Suffocating. He inhales sharply, trying to keep it down, trying to keep it hidden, but his sharp inhalation seems to insert bubbles into the tight ball of pain and suffering, causing it to begin its ascent. It bubbles and it crawls and it creeps. His body convulses slightly as it tries to fight it. He tries to fight the inevitable mental meltdown.

He leans his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall. His shoulder shake slightly as he takes a few stilted breaths. Breathes stilted by the unaddressed pain. He can feel it in his throat. He can feel it pushing to be released. The pressure. The pressure is just to much as he clenches his eyes shut and allows a low groan of pain escape from the barrier of his teeth. That one groan opens the gates that were holding his pressing emotions at bay.

His shoulders begin to quake violently as the tears begin to leak from his sealed eyes, their salty bitterness mixing with the somewhat pure tap water of the shower. Mixing. Polluting. A sob escapes. He is just so tired. He is just so damn tired. Tired of worrying. Tired of the constant dull pain that plagues his heart. Just so damn tired.

The sobs escalate as the quaking of his shoulders manifest, tipping the richter scale. He sobs for almost losing his love. He sobs for almost losing himself. He sobs because he feels as if she is still slipping away. He can't. He can't. He can't lost her again. It's not an option. It's just not. Too much of himself is entwined in the very essence of her being. He feels her pain. He feels her pain and the pain that she doesn't know he is feeling because of her. It's just so much.

He clamps his hand down over his mouth as the sobs continue to bubble to the surface. He can't stop. He can't stop crying. He is a grown ass man and he can't stop crying.

The seconds fade into minutes as he loses track of time, but he knows that the moment that he is presently experiencing feels like an eternity. A moment without her is like an eternity without her. A couple of hours was hell, how would a lifetime be? How could he plunge even further than the depths of hell which he explored during her almost death?

A soft knock on the bathroom door reconnects him with his surroundings and he snaps his head up, almost expecting her to walk in.

"Derek?" her muffled voice asks through the door.

"Yeah?" he responds in the strongest voice that he can muster. His strongest at the moment is incredibly weak for a man of his virility.

"Are you okay?"

He can hear the concern in her voice and that only adds one more stab to his quickly deflating heart. Deflating from the accumulating puncture wounds.

"I'm fine," he manages.

He runs his hand over his face, attempting to remove any evidence of his breakdown.

"I'll be out in a minute," he says as quickly begins to wash his body.

She seems to take him for his word, as he doesn't hear her speak again. He quickly finishes his shower and steps out of his safe haven, the water dripping into pools on the floor. He would be strong. He has to be strong. He has to be strong for her.

With this resolve he quickly towels off his body before walking out of the bathroom and back into the masked ball which has become his life.

**So..Derek finally broke down..he broke down but he isn't glued back together yet...not with permanent glue..more like the stuff I used to eat in Kindergarten..only not really...because I didn't eat glue...but yeah...This story is really angsty...I feel like there were so many issues on the show that were not addressed when it came to Derek and Meredith's near death...in fact...I don't think anything about it was really discussed...Derek is emo right now...in the story and on the show...emo people are angsty...There will be moments that aren't...and eventually they will work things out...but I have no idea when that will be...The characters rule me...**

**I would also like to invite you all to join a new board the I started with Ashley[rainandflames. The link is in my profile...and if that doesn't work you can always PM me. Let me know what you guys think and have a good weekend. **

**-Marci**


	7. Chapter 7

Derek runs his hand down Meredith's side as he stares at the back of her head. She sleeps soundly and peacefully as her snores proliferate the still air. The faint noise of his ticking watch and the light breeze against the limbs outside of the window are the only other sounds that penetrate the silence. The sun is setting, casting a plethora of yellows and oranges across Meredith's sleeping face. She looks almost aetherial. Like his own personal angel.

She has been sleeping for about an hour. He has been watching her sleep for about an hour. He inhales deeply, she sweet scent of her hair filling his nostrils, providing him a very small amount of comfort. She didn't ask any questions about his extended stay in the shower earlier. She just smiled warmly at him, grabbed his hand and led him into the bedroom. He wasn't exactly sure what to expect, but can't deny that he felt somewhat relieved when she informed him that she was tired and wanting to take a nap.

He scoots his body even closer to hers, needing to be as close to her as possible. If only they could meld together. That would be perfect. Her ass is now plush against his groin, her back against his chest. He can feel her lungs expanding as she inhales. He can feel the faint rhythmic beat of her heart. He can feel her living. He feels her living as he sees her dying.

She shifts in his arms and her deep breathing begins to turn shallow. She is waking up. He forces his eyes shut, not wanting her to know that he isn't sleeping. This is the new Derek. The Derek that avoids. The Derek that hides his pain to protect his fragile Meredith. He can feel her turn around his arms. He knows that she is staring at him, studying him. It is when she begins to run her hand along his lower abdomen that he knows what she wants.

Her soft hands travel down the line of hair that disappears beneath his jeans. She stops, but it is only a moment before he feels her running her finger along the inside of the waist of his jeans. She is horny. She wants sex. She almost died three days ago and she wants sex. He just keeps pretending to be asleep. He can't do this. Not now. Not when every time he closes his eyes he sees her cold, dead body. He just can't. So he continues to pretend to be asleep.

He feels Meredith move closer to him on the bed. Her hot breath hits his face as she leans in near to his ear.

"Derek," she whispers softly before nibbling on his ear, "I know you are awake."

Derek grunts in response as he opens one eye, hoping to make her believe that he was, in fact, asleep. He can't do this yet. She's not ready. _He's_ not ready. He can feel her cold hand run up his abdomen and it takes everything in him to not flinch away from her. He know that he hand is cold because the room is cold. But he can't. Her touch. It should turn him on. But he can't.

"Meredith," he starts to say in a cracked voice, but she cuts him off by placing a finger on his lips.

"I want this, Derek," she says with a smile before leaning down to quickly brush her lips across his.

Derek forces his eyes shut, but immediately regrets his decision as her blue forms floats in front of him. Meredith doesn't seem to notice as she caries on with her seduction. She is now straddling him. He feels her hands run over his flaccid cock, but it does nothing for him. Her fingers are cold. Her fingers are dead. He can't do this.

He reaches down and grabs her wrists. She looks up at him confused. "What's wrong?" she asks, a bit of hurt seeping into her voice.

Damn it. Damn it all to fucking hell. He has hurt her now. Damn it. Hurting her is the last thing he wants to do. He can't help it that he can't. It's his body. He can't control that.

"Bathroom," he grunts as he moves to push himself up off of the bed. He needs time to come up with something. This has never been a problem before.

"Oh," Meredith says as she smiles and moves off of his lap.

Derek quickly walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. He leans against the closing door as he slowly begins to massage his temples. What is he going to do? How do you handle this situation? Should he try? Maybe he could try. He could. For her. He could try for her. He inhales deeply. He could do this. He could become aroused. The only other time he has ever had this problem was when he was with Addison. The solution to that problem? Picturing Meredith.

If only that would work now. He closes his eyes as he tries to picture Meredith during one of their previous times together. He imagines his hands moving over her milky skin, so soft and smooth under his touch. His fingers dance along her inner thighs, teasing her as she attempts to arch into his touch. Derek reaches his hand into his pants and begins to stroke his still flaccid cock as these thoughts run through his mind. He continues to stroke as he hardens slightly. This is taking much more work that anticipated. If he doesn't go back to Meredith soon, she will wonder where he is. Maybe once he sees her, just maybe if it is her stroking him, maybe he will be able to do this.

He removes his hand from his pants and sighs before exiting the bathroom and returning to Meredith. His breath hitches as he opens the bedroom door. She is lying on the bed, her hair splayed out behind her. Naked. Completely naked. His eyes take in her slightly flushed face and neck before traveling further south. He feels his heart ache as he sees the bruises along her sternum. Bruises caused by the CPR. Bruises caused by him. He is so entranced by the purple, blue and yellow bruises that he fails to note the heaving of her breasts. He fails to notice the panting sounds that are emanating from her and her nipples that are fully erect. Both clear signs of her arousal. He doesn't need to look further to know that she wants this, but he can't help it. His eyes travel further south over her flat stomach. He notes the tiny scar on her lower abdomen from her appendectomy earlier in the year. When they got back together, he was captivated by that small, new scar. It was something knew for him to learn. Something new for him to run his fingers over. Something new to imagine in those times when he desperately needed her, but she wasn't there.

His breath hitches in his throat as Meredith slowly draws her knee up towards her body, giving him a clear view of just how ready she is. He can tell she is biting down on her lip without even looking at her. He can feel her hand trailing down her chest, stopping only momentarily to fondle herself, before moving over the smooth plane of her stomach. Her fingers finally come into sight at the top of her mound, and he can't help but smile inwardly with the satisfaction of knowing her so well.

He knows this her so well. The her that is sprawled out before him, hair creating an angelic halo around the crown of her head. The her that is his little sexual minx. The her that purrs into his ear and arches her back as the sensations of them making love course through her body like voltage through a battery, end to end. The her that curls her naked and sweaty body into his and seeks the comfort of his embrace while still riding the high of the giant puff of orgasm they have just shared. He knows _this_ her so very well. Better than the back of his own hand. But Meredith Grey outside of the bedroom? He's not sure he has any idea who the hell she is anymore.

Her tantalizing tentacles fiddle with the hair at the top of her mound, caressing and grasping at the soft curls as she often does his hair. He instinctively runs his tongue over his dry lips. He is captivated by her movements, so full of life and wanting, but he still isn't hard.

"Derek," she rasps from the bed, "I need you." Her fingers slide further down and over her glistening slit. Her body immediately reacts as she arches up into her own touch as a high pitched hiss escapes her lips.

Derek clenches his jaw and forces his heavy body across the room. He has to do this. For her. He has to try. He crawls up the bed and props himself up on his elbows above her body. His icy blue eyes bore into her greys. They aren't green today. They are grey. Lifeless. Colorless. Somewhere between black and white. Almost as if the boundaries have been blurred between life and death and Meredith was caught somewhere in the middle. And Derek. Derek was caught there right along with her.

Derek feels Meredith's hand begin to stroke herself against his jeans as her panting increases. She maintains eye contact with him, daring him to take over. He wonders if she can tell he has yet to achieve an erection. He fights this thought off as he dips his head down and captures her lips in a kiss that begins gently and full of love, but abruptly turns into one of need and hunger. What starts off as a gentle sucking of her bottom lip soon turns to a harsh tugging. Meredith's short gasp of pain turns to a low moan of pleasure as her body begins to tremble from her building orgasm.

Derek feels angry. He feels angry about his helplessness. His helplessness to save her. His helplessness to help her through her problems. Anger at his inability to be there for her. Anger at his inability to get it up when she obviously needs him.

Derek growls animalistic as he reaches down and roughly grabs her wrist. He is sure there will be a bruise, but quickly pushes that thought aside as he runs his long forefinger along her moist slit. If it was good for her before, it is even better now. He can tell. He can tell because she moans loudly the second his index finger touches her. Gentleness doesn't suit him right now. He needs to vent his frustrations. He needs to vent and since he can't fuck her senseless with his cock, he will fuck her numb with his fingers.

Meredith gasps against the strained skin of his neck as he uses his thumb to roughly caress her throbbing clit. He only waits a second before thrusting two fingers into her. Hard. Quick. Deep. Her hot, slick walls surround his fingers, pulsating in a rhythm he is sure matches his own heartbeat at the moment. He feels as if he has dipped his fingers into a hot, moist cake that isn't quite ready. Naughty. Dirty. Devilishly delicious.

He moves his fingers harshly inside of her, hitting and scraping against the sides of her collapsing walls occasionally. He hears hisses of pain, but only listens to the moans of pleasure. Derek. Derek is in pain. Derek is in a pain that he is trying to work out by working her. He ignores the single, hot tear that escapes from the corner of Meredith's eye as he continues to ruthlessly finger her.

Finally, after longer than usual, he feels her walls clench tightly around his fingers as she digs her nails into his shoulders. Her body trembles beneath him, but he no longer looks into her eyes. He hasn't been able to look in her eyes since they began this bout of foreplay. He stares at a spot on the floor as she hisses and sighs into his ear and her body explodes into a million tiny pieces.

She is still panting and her juices are stilling trailing down his fingers as she begins to move her hands down his chest, ready and willing to return the favor. Derek still isn't hard. Even after all of that, he still isn't hard. He isn't hard and that pisses him off.

He removes his now sticky fingers from her and grabs her wrist, stopping her motions. "Don't," he hisses before rolling off of her.

She sits up and questions him with her eyes. He can see the hurt without looking at her. He knows that her shoulders are slumping slightly and that she is chewing nervously on her bottom lip as she debates whether or not to question him.

He sighs as he runs his clean hand over his face. He can't tell her that he can't get it up. He can't tell her that he can't get it up because every time he closes his eyes, every time he touches her, every time she does something that even remotely reminds him that she is alive, he sees her dead. He can't tell her that. So, he lies and he avoids.

His jaw slackens as he lowers his hand and turns to her, sorrow and exhaustion causing the crow's feet around his eyes to be distinct. "I'm sorry I snapped and was so rough, Mer. I have a headache. That's all," he tells her in a hushed voice.

Her face immediately softens as she looks at him and he knows that she bought it. At least for now she is buying it. She runs a sweaty palm over his clothed chest before leaning up and placing a soft kiss on his temple.

"You lie here and relax. I will go get your some aspirin and a glass of water," she whispers next to his ear. Her hot breath lapping him doing absolutely nothing to redirect his blood flow. He simply swallows the wad of emotions caught in his throat and nods slightly.

She quickly jumps off of the bed and runs into the bathroom, not even bothering to dress herself. She is going to get him medicine. She is attempting to take care of him. But she doesn't know. She has no idea. She has no idea that the pain he is feeling isn't from a headache. It's from heartache. It's from a heartache caused by her and there isn't a pill bitter enough to take away that pain.

**I really struggled with this update, but I must say, I'm happy with the way it turned out. And that doesn't happen very often. I hope you all like it. I have 3 weeks of the semester left...and then hopefully for a month I will be an update machine with all of my fics. I just wanted to say...this update was big...Derek not being able to get it up has never really happened to him before...not when he tried...he didn't really try with Addison..but yeah..hope you liked it. **

-Marci


	8. Chapter 8

Derek squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as a strangled sigh escapes from deep within, its origins somewhere in his soul. It has been two weeks. Two weeks of sitting at home. Two weeks of not sleeping. Two weeks of seeing her blue. Two weeks of regretting practically raping her with his finger. Two weeks of regret. Two weeks of self-hatred. Two weeks of pure hell.

He closes his eyes as the sight of her grimacing the day after he hurt her flashed before him. He watched her slowly lower herself into the bathtub, the water only aggravating the sore areas of her soft, fragile folds. He hung his head in shame before turning around and walking out of the bathroom. She pretended that is was nothing. She pretended that she wasn't hurt, but he knew. He knows. He knows better. He knows that he hurt her in a way that no woman ever deserves to be hurt. He loves her. He loves her and he hurt her.

He leans forward onto the counter of the nurses' station, the chart still gripped tightly in his hands. It is his first day back. It is his first day back because it is her first day back. He didn't want to leave her alone. He was too scared to think of what could happen. He is too scared to think of what could happen.

She was able to pretend. She was able to pretend like everything was okay, like she never gave up. She was able to live in denial while the images continue to haunt him daily. Blue. Cold. Dead. Meredith. Repetitiously appearing like slides in one of those view finders he had as a child.

He senses a presence next to him and knows immediately who it is from the scent of lavender that fills his nasal cavity. He could turn his head slightly and acknowledge her, but he is just too tired, too weary. He can feel her smiling. He doesn't have to look. He feels it. Her faux bright and shiny act scorches his skin like the sun in the desert.

"Hey," she says in an upbeat voice as she places a hand on his back. Three layers of clothing separate their skin, yet goosebumps erupt all over his body as the coldness from her hand diffuses throughout the entirety of his body.

He suppresses a shiver as he forces a smile and turns to face her. "Hey," he says in a controlled voice. He can't let her know about his internal battle. He can't let her know that every word, every look, every whiff of her breaks him a little more.

"So," she says as she contorts her body to face him, "guess what?"

He can hear the excitement in her voice as it begs for him to ask the question she is anticipating. He finally turns to face her. "What?" he asks with arched eyebrow and slightly upturned lips.

He watches as she lifts herself up onto her tippy toes before falling back on her heels. "Sloan is letting me scrub in on Jane Doe's facial reconstruction and he is going to let me harvest the cranial bones for the bone graft," she says in one breath.

Derek feels the oxygen flee his lungs as the color drains from his face. He could swear that his heart stops beating momentarily as he stares at the excitement and hope dancing in her eyes. His knuckles turn a stark white as his grip on a patient's chart tightens. "What?" he manages to choke out as he looks down at her, all other vocabulary fleeing from his brain, leaving it vacant of all but the image of his dead Meredith.

"Yeah," she says, not catching the fear in his voice or the new worry lines that have just developed around his sad eyes, "he is going to let me harvest the bone. Only one chance, so I guess I better not screw it up," she adds with a playful smile.

"Seriously?" he finds himself saying in a tone of disbelief.

He sees her narrow her eyes at him and know that he is caught in his web of various masks. Just for a moment. Just for one single moment he let the façade fall away and she saw him. She really saw him and how he felt. He needs to figure out how to back track. He needs to figure out how to keep her from getting hurt anymore.

Uh oh. Her hands are now on her hips and her bottom lip is sticking out slightly as she glares at him. He knows that he is in trouble now. "What?!" she whispers harshly. "Don't think I can do it? Don't think I'm good enough?"

His eyes widen as he takes a step forward. He swallows the lump in his throat before placing a hand on her elbow. "You know that is not what I meant," he says in a soft, tenor voice as he tilts his head to the side and stares into her eyes, trying to convince both himself and her that he is okay.

Her expression softens slightly as she removes her hands from her hips and crosses her arms over her chest, going from attack mode to defense in a matter of seconds. Derek takes another step forward. Now only inches separate their impassioned bodies, Meredith's from raging anger and Derek's from unrelenting worry. He trails his forefinger slowly down her prominent jaw line and immediately feels her relax slightly.

"All I meant," he begins slowly, knowing that she will take what he has to say the wrong way, "was that it is your first day back and maybe, just maybe, you should take it a little slow," he whispers in the softest voice he can manage.

She considers him for a moment before taking a step back and slapping away his hand. She doesn't speak a word as she turns on her heel and begins to walk away. Derek's heart rate increases as he watches her. "Where are you going?" he asks in a voice masking his fear.

She stops in her tracks. He can almost see the anger and hurt radiating off of her body. He hears her say _To jump off of the building. To Drown. You do this to me. You make me want to die. You are not enough for me._ However, those words never leave her lips. She doesn't turn around to face him as she says, "To prepare for a surgery that you obviously don't think I'm ready for."

He opens his mouth to speak, somewhat dumbstruck by the bitterness that caused her voice to turn a bit sharp. His breathing shallows and quickens and he begins to feel as if it is he who is now drowning, but on dry land. His dark thoughts are suffocating him, depriving him of the necessary oxygen. His spirit is wilted from the lack of sunshine and his heart, his heart is broken.

His eyelids descend, shutting out the light and offering him a sordid sanctuary in his dark mind. The outside noises of the hospital blur together before fading away completely. He can feel and hear his arteries pumping blood into his head. Arteries that only spread his pain as it distributes the blood pumped by his slowly dying heart.

He opens his eyes to find himself once again squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, but only one thought occupies his mind. Meredith cannot fail on this surgery. He doesn't know what would happen if she did. She can't take it. Hell, he will admit it, he can't take it. He can't lose her. He just…can't.

A single bead of sweat frees itself from his raven locks and travels down his worried brow, a manifestation of his anxiety, of his pain. The pain. The unending pain. Pain that doesn't end with sleep because Derek can't sleep. Not really. His dreams become riddled with nightmares of pulling a blue Meredith out of the water and him not being able to save her. She always dies in his dreams. She always dies and he always lives. His worst fear relived every time he manages to close his eyes for more than ten minutes.

He feels a hand come into contact with his back and jumps out of his reverie. "You okay, Shep?" a familiar voice asks in a worried tone.

Derek shrugs the unwanted hand off of his body before glancing at the tall figure out of the corner of his eye. "I'm fine, Mark," he answers curtly before briskly walking away.

Only Derek isn't fine. He is far from fine. His pain is unbearable and the only one who can cure him has no idea of how he suffers. He needs to make it stop. He needs to dull the pain. He needs to numb the pain. Tonight, after work. Tonight he would make the pain go away, even if it is only for a couple of hours. He could breathe again. He would give anything to be able to breathe again, even if it is only for a couple of hours.

Derek Shepherd is drowning in pain, but tonight he would be drowning in scotch.

**So..I know it has been forever...I didn't have a computer for over a month...and I also struggled to figure out what I wanted to do next...I stayed some what with the show...but from now on...there will be some events that happen that happened in the show...but not all of them...as might be indicated by the last line. I hope I still have readers for this story and I hope you like it. :D**

**-Marci**


	9. Chapter 9

**So so so sorry this took so long. I just...have lacked inspiration for this story...but here is finally an update. Hope you like it. -Marci**

He stumbles through the metal door of his trailer as a clap of thunder resounds outside. He was supposed to go to Meredith's, but he couldn't. He couldn't face her. He couldn't hold her. He couldn't see her dead tonight. So he had come to the trailer. He had driven drunk. He had stupidly driven drunk in the middle of a thunderstorm, making the road even blurrier that it would have been without the help of scotch.

He drunkenly pulls his shirt over his head and throws it in the vicinity of the kitchen. He hears a thud followed by a crash, but he doesn't care. He will take care of it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Not today. Today he can't even manage to unbutton his jeans without stumbling into the wall. Today he trips over himself as he attempts to kick off his shoes. Today. Today the scotch flavored tears mix with the fresh rain as he falls face first onto his bed.

His phone vibrates in his pocket for the third time in thirty minutes, but he ignores it. He groans into the pillow as he knows the name that is displayed across the screen. The name of the face that haunts him relentlessly. Her death has transformed her into this beautiful vampire that is sucking the life out of him. He loves her. He needs her. He grieves her.

The rain beats down on the tin can, echoing through his brain. The sounds, much like the images around him, blur together forming a swell. A swell that instantly reminds him of the moment he dove into the water to rescue her. He tried to save her. He tried to be her knight in shining whatever. He tried. He failed. She died.

They might have brought her back. Cristina might have saved her. But he lost her. He couldn't save her. She gave up on him. She gave up on him so now, now he is giving up on himself. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to breathe. Scotch can be his water. He will drown in scotch like Meredith drowned in the water. He will drown, but this time, Meredith can't save him.

His eyes are squeezed shut as he tries to stop the spinning of the room around him, so he doesn't notice the headlights that shine through the trailer thirty minutes later. His ears are overwhelmed by the sounds of the swelling water around him in his submarine, so he doesn't hear the footfalls on the porch or the slow opening of the door.

He thinks that he is dreaming when the scent of lavender drifts up into his nose and fills him with a welcomed warmth, but it doesn't register that he is no longer alone.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" a voice yells at him, startling him and causing him to jerk up a little too quickly. The room tilts to the left before he falls off of the right side of the bed.

His stomach churns as he hears her footsteps coming towards him, the living dead trying to rescue the dying.

"You smell like scotch," she accuses as she wrinkles her nose.

"That would be correct," he slurs as he tries to get to his feet.

She struggles to help him to his feet as she frowns at him. "What the hell were you thinking?" she asks as she hits his chest.

His stomach performs a somersault. "I think I'm going to be sick," he mutters before pushing past her and running into the bathroom. He kneels down in the tiny bathroom before heaving violently into the toilet.

Meredith sighs as she reaches over his body and gets him a warm wash cloth. She places it on the back of his neck. "What were you thinking?" she asks concerned as she kneels down next to him.

"Don't know," he mutters, before hurling once again. "What is it that you are always thinking when you get drunk?" he retorts.

"Point taken," she mutters before she goes into his bedroom and gets him a pair of pajama pants. When she gets back to the bathroom, he is resting against the wall. "Stand up," she orders him.

He opens one eye as he stares at her confused. "What?" he asks hoarsely.

"I said get up," she commands again as she kicks him softly in the leg. "I'm going to get you into pajamas."

"Oh," he says simply as he struggles to his feet. He braces himself against the wall as Meredith unbuttons his jeans and pulls them off of him. She slowly helps him into the pajamas as he smirks down at her.

"You look good down there," he says with a lopsided smile.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Shut up. You are too drunk to even do anything about it."

He chuckles as she pulls the pajamas up. He wraps his arms around her as he buries his nose in her hair. "Love you," he mutters.

He does love her. He loves her so much. He loves her so damn much that it is killing him. As he falls back to the floor, his knees banging against the hard tile as he continues to empty the contents of his stomach, he forgets. He forgets about her being cold and blue and dead. He forgets about the pain of having his heart being slowly ripped out. He forgets. He drinks so that he can forget. He forgets so he drinks. He forgets that Meredith died. He forgets so that just for tonight they can revisit being Meredith and Derek. Derek and Meredith. Derek Shepherd has entered a vicious, destructive cycle. Derek Shepherd feels comfortably numb and he doesn't want to return to feeling.

Derek Shepherd has ceased being Derek Shepherd and has transformed into a shell of a human. A shell that allows him to pretend to be okay better than the façade he has been wearing since the accident. He has evolved. He has evolved from an avoider to a drinker. The next step of evolution for Derek Shepherd? Alcoholic.

As he falls drunkenly into the bed and pulls Meredith's body into his, he can't help but begin to plan his next drinking marathon tomorrow. This is better than faking. This is better than feeling. This is better than hurting. Forgetting is so much better.


	10. Chapter 10

He buries his head under the pillow as the shrill noise of the alarm causes his head to feel as if it might explode.

"Make it stop!" he huskily yells as he gets the first bitter aftertaste of the previous nights debauchery.

He can vaguely hear Meredith grumbling next to him as he feels the bed shift under her light weight as she shuts off the alarm.

Then, time blurs. He is in an out of consciousness as he hears the shower running and her clothes being thrown around as she gets dressed, only sure of the order from common sense. He can hear the voices from downstairs float up through their open bedroom door just before he becomes aware of the delicious aroma of coffee wafting towards his nostrils. He dares to open one eyelid and sees a cup of coffee sitting on the table next to the bed. He sighs as he forces his other eye open, testing out the stability of the room before slowly rolling over.

As he once again opens his eyes, which he didn't even realize had fallen closed again, he notices two tiny white pills sitting on top of a note next to his coffee. He can't help but smile at the hangover treatment Meredith has provided, forgetting momentarily the reason he so desperately needed the anesthetic.

He picks up the coffee and takes a sip. The luke warm temperature lets him know that his reaction to the aroma of the coffee was delayed, like his other reactions this morning. He sighs as he reaches for the two pills and quickly swallows them, the pounding in his head demanding the drugs. He then allows another small smile to play at his lips as he picks up the note from Meredith.

_Der,_

_Had to go to work. Called and told them you were ill and wouldn't be in until noon._

_-Mer_

She has never left him a note before and he can't help but smile at her thoughtfulness. However, the smile soon fades as a certain absence screams out at him. She didn't say I love you. She didn't say it and now his heart seems to be swimming in the remnants of the scotch that he didn't throw up last night.

He haphazardly places the half-empty cup on the table before falling back on the pillows. A swooshing sound now resounds in his head along with the pounding from the hangover. A swooshing that sounds eerily similar to a quiet voice whispering. Whispers that he can't understand, but he instinctively knows are the same words he has been hearing nonstop. He wasn't enough. He couldn't save her. She doesn't love him. She doesn't trust him. He isn't enough.

A shrill noise pierces the ear. His cell phone. His cell phone is ringing and it is playing her tone. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He can't ignore her call. He shouldn't ignore her call. But he does. He ignores her call. He lets the shrill noise continue to pierce the otherwise silent room and add to the sounds already reverberating in his brain. He ignores her call because he doesn't want the whispers to become louder. He doesn't want the whispers to become louder because he knows that it is her voice whispering to him. It is her voice whispering her thoughts and he can't handle the abstract whispers to turn into concrete words.

He finds himself breathing a sigh of relief as his phone silences. He had been holding his breath. He hadn't been able to breathe. He hadn't been able to breathe and now finds himself panting to recapture the control of his breathing, a feeling that is similar to how he felt after performing CPR on her dead, cold, blue body for the better half of an hour. A feat which in and of itself is inhuman. Most people tire after two minutes, but he had refused to be relieved. He had to save her. He had to help her.

And he had failed.

He had failed.

She had died and he had failed.

His exhausted body cannot muster the strength to withhold the tears that now begin to fall from the overflowing pools that have collected in his eyes. The pressure on his nose does nothing for him. He hurts. The throbbing and pounding and swooshing are no longer contained within the confines of his skull as the pain travels throughout his entire body. He even believes that the hairs on his arms and legs hurt. He hurts. He hurts like hell. He finds that his pain medicine has completely abandoned him and he desperately needs more.

Propelled by this intense agony, he stumbled out of bed. He doesn't really see where he is going as he dresses hurriedly. He isn't sure of the time, but he has a destination. He has a destination and he needed to be there five minutes ago.

His phone rings again. The staccato high pitched notes indicating the hospital, more specifically, the Chief. But he still ignores it. He doesn't need reason. He doesn't need to be antagonized. He needs to be numb again. He needs scotch. He isn't thinking about his career or his life. He is only thinking about his pain and that growing voice that he needs to silence.

He drives without driving, parking across the street from the hospital where several people are very worried about him. He doesn't notice that a certain blue jeep is no longer there as she has gone home to check on him, worry getting the best of her. All that he notices is the dull green sign that normally glows in the night over a door that leads to the prescription for his pain.

He doesn't think about the hour. He doesn't even know the hour. He walks through the door, receiving a shocked look from Joe, but not noticing anything but the amber liquid behind the bar.

"Hey Doc, you're here early," Joe says slowly as Derek plops clumsily down onto a bar stool.

"The usual," he mumbles as his head falls forward in his hands.

"Isn't it a bit early for scotch?" Joe asks with raised eyebrow, worry beginning to make its way into his eyes. "Besides, shouldn't you be at work?"

Derek doesn't seem to hear his questions as he holds out his hand for his drink. Joe continues to watch him carefully as he fixes the drink, which Derek down in one long gulp.

"Another," he mutters before the amber liquid has made its way down to his stomach, his esophagus still burning slightly from it.

Joe doesn't speak as he pours Derek another drink, which is downed just as quickly as the first. Instead of verbalizing his desire for more, Derek simply pushes his glass towards him. Joe fills the glass one more time before setting the bottle down next to Derek and walking over to the phone. Derek abandons his glass and begins to drink straight from the bottle, the pain starting to lessen as the bottle empties. He doesn't see that Joe is on the phone and he doesn't hear the worried words he tells the person on the other end. All that he knows is that the hair on his arms and legs no longer hurts and the whispering voice has been replaced by Pink Floyd performing "Comfortably Numb" as the familiar tingling sensation begins to take hold of him as his vision blurs.

By the time the bell over the door rings once again, the bottle is empty and Derek's forehead is resting plush against the cool bar. He can hear the blood flow through his ears, but he can't hear the whispering. He can feel the tingling, but he can't feel the pain.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" a voice yells at him.

He doesn't jump at the intrusion, but unsteadily lifts his head to stare into the angry eyes of his best friend. "Sit down. Have a drink," he says with a lop sided smile.

"It's one in the afternoon, Derek. You are supposed to be at work. Grey is freaking out because she went to check on you and you are gone. The Chief is fuming because you are supposed to be performing a craniotomy right now. Are you trying to ruin your career and push everyone you know away from you?" Mark hisses at him as he sits down on the barstool next to him.

Derek narrows his eyes at him. "What do you know about anything!" he hisses as he lifts the empty bottle to his lips, hoping that more scotch will miraculously appear in the bottle.

Mark reaches over and wrenches the bottle out of his hand. "This isn't you, Shep!"

Derek glares at Mark as he reaches out and tries to push him, only disrupting his equilibrium and almost falling off of the bar stool. "Fuck you! Leave me the hell alone!" he slurs.

"What happened to you, man?" Mark asks worriedly as he helps Derek back onto the barstool.

"I caught my best friend fucking my wife. I wasn't enough for her and I wasn't enough for Meredith," he mutters as he reaches behind the bar and grabs a beer from the cooler.

"What do you mean you weren't enough for Meredith?" Mark asks as he takes the beer away from Derek.

"She gave up. In the water. I wasn't enough," he says as he reclaims his beer.

Mark's eyes soften as he looks at his best friend falling to pieces in front of him. He watches as Derek gulps the beer, turning only when he hears the sound of the bell above the door ringing again. His eyes widen as he notices Meredith followed by the Chief walking into the bar.

"Derek!" Meredith says in a relieved voice that is tinged with worry and anger.

"Shepherd! What the hell are you doing?!" the Chief shouts at the same time.

Derek glances at the two before allowing his head to fall back down onto the bar. He would deal with them later, for now, he was going to enjoy being comfortably numb. Later he would deal with the ramifications of swimming in scotch, but now, now he is just going to enjoy the dip.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys,**

**Sorry about the lack of updates...life is killing me. There is one more update after this that is already written...I will try to post it later tonight if I don't get caught up in my research. I also have started my first Twilight fic that is posted on my board. I hope you all will check it out. Hoep you like the update. **

**-Marci**

He runs his hands along his khaki clad thighs as he stares at the angry face of the Chief in front of him. He had been suspended for two weeks without pay. He had been ordered to attend AA for two weeks. He had been ordered to meet with the hospital therapist. He should feel ashamed. He should feel embarrassed. But all he feels is the burning need in his throat and stomach for scotch. He doesn't care about the money. He doesn't care about anything but feeling numb.

He closes his eyes tightly and attempts to swallow, hoping the saliva will alleviate some of the burning sensation.

"Damn it, Shep!" the Chief yells at him. "You are thinking about drinking already!" he accuses in an angry voice.

"What does it matter?" Derek asks harshly as he opens his eyes. "I am no concern of yours."

The Chief's eyes widen momentarily before he narrows them angrily at Derek. "You are a concern of mine as a friend and colleague. You are a concern of mine as a renown surgeon who holds lives in his hands. You better get your shit together or it all will have been for nothing," the chief tells him.

Derek's head falls forward into his hands as his body begins to convulse with repressed emotions. It is times like these that he wishes his father was still alive. Derek Shepherd is falling apart and he needs the arms of his father to hold him together.

He jumps as the Chief places his hand on his shoulder. "I have known you since you used to roam the halls of your father's hospital as a young boy, Derek. What would he say? What would he say if he saw you drinking while you were supposed to be performing surgery?"

Derek jerks away from the touch of the Chief. His eyes darken with ire. "How dare you! How dare you bring my father into this!" he shouts as he yanks the office door opens and leaves a dumbfounded Chief and a sobbing Meredith in his wake.

He ignores the stares and whispers as he tears through the hospital, opting for the stairs instead of waiting impatiently for the elevator. His hands are trembling with need. His hands are trembling with a need he has never felt physically before. The need for alcohol.

The blood pounds in his head as he quickens his descent. His descent down the stairs. His descent away from the Chief. His descent away from Meredith. His descent into the numb abyss that he now depends upon.

He reaches the landing, his legs now wobbling beneath his weight. His legs now wobbling beneath the weight of the world. He pushes the door open and walk out into the hospital lobby. He can see the front doors and nothing else. He doesn't see the tall doctor running after him. He doesn't hear the heavy footfalls as the distance between the old friends decreases. He doesn't even recognize the friendly hand resting on his shoulder as he shrugs it away in annoyance.

"What the fuck, man?!" Mark hisses at him as his hold tightens on Derek's shoulder, causing him to spin on his heel and face him.

Derek's face flushes with anger as he clenches his jaw. "Leave me alone," he whispers in a deadly voice.

Mark shakes his head as he takes in Derek's disheveled appearance. "I don't think so," Mark says in a low voice as he wraps his hand around Derek's wrist and drags him away from the front doors. Away from relief. Away from death.

"Let me go, Mark," Derek whispers more harshly.

Mark answers by shaking his head gravely.

"God damn it, Mark! I said to let me the fuck go!" he almost shouts at Mark.

"Are you trying to kill yourself, Derek?" Mark asks sadly as he turns to face Derek, his grip only tightening. "And what about Meredith? Do you not care that you are hurting her?"

Derek pushes Mark against the wall with every ounce of his remaining strength. "Do not talk about Meredith!" he spits in Mark's face. "You do not know anything about Meredith!"

"I know that she almost died. I know that she almost died and you fell apart. You fell apart and the pieces continue to scatter. If you don't pull yourself together soon, some of them may be lost," Mark says in a sad voice as Derek's façade begins to crumble.

"She didn't almost die. She did die, damn it. She died and I couldn't save her!" he shouts as the tears build in his eyes.

Mark's eyes widen as he shakes his head. "She didn't die, Derek. She is here. She is alive and you are pushing her away."

Derek's face hardens again. "What do you know? Nothing! You know nothing about Meredith!"

"I know that she is standing right behind you, sobbing, because she sees you falling apart."

The hard lines of Derek's face soften as he looks over his shoulder and sees a sobbing Meredith. He breaks free from the shackles of Mark's grip and runs to her, immediately enveloping her in his arms. "Oh, Mer," he whispers into her hair.

She clings desperately to him as her hot tears moisten his shirt. "Der," she manages to choke out as Derek runs his hands up and down her back.

"I'm sorry, Mer. I'm so sorry," he whispers as tears sting his eyes.

"Der," she sobs. "You…you have to stop…please…for me…for us…please…"

Derek clings to her, the desire for a drink still burning deep within his stomach. But it is no longer his first need. Suddenly, Meredith has displaced the scotch. Meredith's tears and Meredith's cries have displaced Derek's need for numbness.

"Okay," he finally chokes out. "I…I'll try," he whispers.

As the two cling desperately to each other in the middle of the crowded hospital, it feels as if the flames from the ferry accident have been doused and now the long process of cleaning up the damage can begin.


End file.
